“Ah.” He nods pensively. “Mrs. Brisbane. Six poached eggs, double sausage. Tea, not coffee, and it’s Earl Grey or nothing. Cream, no sugar.”
“That’s the one.”
“So she likes you, but would she care that I’m here, too?”
“If she did, she’d have kicked us off her widow’s walk already. She can see through walls... and rooftops.”
“Then we’d best behave ourselves.” He winks at me and opens the bag, removing a container of pie. He pries the lid off, then passes both the container and a fork to me. “Eat up. I know how you get if you stay hungry too long.”
I stick out my tongue at him and take a big bite of blueberry pie. It’s so exquisite that my eyes roll back and drift shut. “My god, that’s good.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait, you baked it? I thought Tae was doing most of the cooking since Lou passed.”
“He does. But I make the pies.”
I take another bite, enjoying the burst of fruity flavor and the flaky crust. Rick watches me, his gaze hungry for something he won’t express aloud.
Only when I’m sure it’s true do I give him the praise he wants. “This pie is better than Lou’s. If this is the last thing I have in my mouth before I turn into a horse, I’ll have zero regrets.”
He grins, but then his expression changes, as if he was struck by a sudden thought. He glances around the widow’s walk and its high railing. “If you change into a horse up here, how are you going to get down?”
I shrug. “Magic? Or a crane? Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. The people of Crescent Cove will figure it out. There are plenty of storm and water witches around—maybe they can create a nice little typhoon to sweep me up and carry me down to the ground. And if I break a leg, I won’t have to be shot, because someone can heal me. It’s perfect, really. Everyone should live in a town like this.”
“The town’s okay.” He opens his own serving of blueberry pie and props an arm on the railing, poking at the dessert with his fork. “You’re my favorite part of it.”
“I don’t reallylivein town.”
“Youarepart of it, though. You’re more important than you realize.”
I glance away. “I don’t know about that.”
“You would be missed. And not just by me.”
I scoot closer to him, pressing my shoulder to his.
The clock tower in the square proclaims what we already know. It’s just a few minutes until midnight.
We both go quiet, eating our pie in comfortable silence. The band starts another song, one of my favorites, and I’m supremely grateful for that. I love old favorites, songs I’ve listened to on repeat a million times. Songs that can change my mood as surely as one of Rick’s potions.
This is how I want to go—leaning against the man I love, with blueberry pie on my tongue and a song I love in my ears. It’s the perfect end to one life, and the beginning of another.
15
There’s nothing I can do. Nothing except make this moment slip by as painlessly as possible.
I set my pie aside. Then I wrap her in both arms, as if by holding onto her I can preserve her in this form.
“If you turn into a horse, I’m going to take such good care of you,” I say. “I’ll brush you every day and feed you the best oats. You’ll have the fanciest horseshoes, a whole collection of them. Prada ones, and Louboutins—does Louboutin make horseshoes? I’ll get them to make you a pair of red-bottomed horseshoes. I’ll spare no expense.”
I don’t usually talk this much, but she seems to like it. She’s cracking up, laughing so hard that the final seconds pass without her noticing.
I’m terrified. I think I’m going to die or have a heart attack. But I don’t let on.
Seconds tick by. The band continues to play.
At last Marlowe murmurs, “I’m not a horse.”
